The Humanitarian Story.

Discussion in 'Writing' started by Forkunited89, Jan 22, 2004.

  1. Forkunited89

    Forkunited89 Guest

    I wrote this a while ago.

    He was an attorney. He was a great humanitarian and altruist. He was thirty-two years old. His name was Allen Trump. Allen Trump never thought of himself before others. That’s the way he had always lived his life. He thought that he loved it that way; rather he was only taught to love it that way. He loved God, his family, and his friends.
    In court he always held an open mind. He defended murderers, burglars, and death. Only the guilty came to him, because they knew he would defend anyone. He would never do it for money, but only for the welfare of any human. He loved every one and believed that everyone had the right to live. He loved both the killer and the killed. The killer lived, so he loved him more. Most of all he loved the life of others.
    Allen was a tall man. He had short blonde hair and light eyes. They were loving eyes. People would look into them and smile. People loved how when walking down a street he would glance at every single person out of the crowd and stare into them with his eyes. But, they would feel as they didn’t deserve the look, so they would turn away with a sense of guilt.
    He was not a strong man. He had a very straggly body. He had never seen fit to build his body or his mind. As a child he spent his time in school teaching everyone else the material but never learning it himself. He had loved school; not to learn but to teach. He hated working individually. He would always whisper answers to anyone nearby.
    He hadn’t married yet. The idea came to him that he would never love any one certain person. Society as a whole is all he loved. He felt it wrong for all his love to be soaked up by one single woman. He may eventually get married, but it would be a lie. He would only do it to ensure to people that he had a good conception of his life, and he was a very happy average man with nice family and wife.
    One night, Allen went a bar. He was lonely that night and that was his oasis of people. He sat at his stool asking the bartender for a drink. The man next to him seemed disgruntled. He had an overgrown beard and a scuffed face. He sat drinking and muttering to himself. Finally Allen said, “May I ask what has got you down brother?”
    The man replied, “Err… Wife been telling me to start having more feeling. She kicked me out of my own house. She’s the one needs to have more feeling if you ask me!”
    As usual that started Allen up. He got into the conversation about having an open mind. He expanded on how he should look through his wife’s eyes sometime, and they sat there talking for hours. They went from one subject to the next, mostly with Allen lecturing the man about his selfishness. Their conversation and the drinking went on hour after hour until it was three in the morning. The bartender closed up and kicked the two men out.
    Allen started driving home drunkenly. He saw the headlights flying past but felt know meaning of them. He felt nothing. Soon his foot lost feeling on the peddle and he was driving blindly. He saw the car next to him and thought that he’d let the man pass. He passed in front of him and now Allen could see the tail lights of the car. He stared at them dozing. He fell asleep with a smile of generosity on his face.

    “Allen Trump was barefoot on an island. It was deserted. He could see nothing beyond the brim of the ocean. Many trees were dead from maybe a storm or a hurricane; he didn’t know. There was a black beach that soaked up the sun. He ran into the woods to get off the hot sand.
    He was confused and lost. He had no idea where he was and had never seen this place before. The bushes and plants were wind blown and torn. There no wild animals in sight but he was sure there had to be some on the island.
    Allen sat down at the edge of the forest and watched the waves. He thought of what he would do with himself. He would have to make some means of survival: Maybe something to put on his feet to walk on the sand, and maybe a shelter. He got up and gathered palm leaves, parts of bushes and some wood.
    He started to try to construct some sort of shoe or sock. It was hard for him; he tried multiple times before he got it right. He was frustrated with himself that he could not do it the first time. When he finally started to put it together and make it work he felt a sense of joy. He had not used his mind to do anything for himself since he was a small child. It was a strange thing to him; and after he made it and put it on he felt an undirected anger. He may have thought he had been selfish or maybe he was angry he had never used his constructiveness. Allen didn’t know what the anger was but he knew it was there.
    All the rest of that day he built things and started to survive. He felt a strange feeling all the time when doing it. He never had known the feeling before but it didn’t feel right within him. By the end of the day he had constructed shoes, a shelter, seen an animal to hunt, and found some berries to eat.
    When night came upon the island he started to feel an unavoidable loneliness. He sat on the beach, tired and sick. He no longer felt the desire to survive. He realized there was no one else to survive with. He had an urge to talk to or defend someone. Allen didn’t know long he sat there. At one time he even started to pretend that he had someone next to him to talk to. He made his own conversation until finally he fell asleep.
    In the morning, he woke up with the sense of loneliness forgotten and overcome by a sense of hunger. He ran back through the forest to the berries he had found. They were sour but they filled him up.
    That afternoon, he added to his shelter and made it sturdier. He then sat in it. That is when the loneliness came back, the same feeling he had had the night before. It was growing worse now.
    He lived the rest of that day, sickening himself. When he woke up again the next day he was once again joyous of his work, until the afternoon when loneliness came in dry spurts. He lasted until that night. He sat on the beach again thinking, but this time he did not fall asleep. The realization came to him that something was wrong with him, and some thing was missing. He could not find the missing piece but, an instinct told him it was there somewhere. Whether or not he wanted to find it was a question he asked himself. No, he did not want to know, but he could not help the thought of it.
    Suddenly, the feeling came to him. He felt what was wrong but he didn’t know it. He got up, trying to escape this feeling. He ran out into the ocean and dived into the nothingness. The water rushed past his face as he swam. It slowly was turning clear around him, until he stopped in a white space. There was no water around him; he was standing with no knowledge of it. He was nothing and there was nothing beside him.
    A voice came out of the nothing; he was not conscious of what it was. It sounded as his voice, but he was not speaking. The voice said:
    “This is your mind and what you have made of it. This nothingness you see in yourself and around you. It is a picture of what is inside of your body. You no longer have a self, or a mind. You have absolutely nothing in a world without people.
    “You do feel this now, but you do not know it and you can’t escape the feeling. You are feeling the zero you have made yourself into. In this blank space nothing exists. You do not exist, and you never have. There was no individual element that existed in you. The only way you were ever real, was in a group. The group created you, and with out the group you are destroyed.
    “In this space there are no criminals to fend for and no incompetents to teach. There is no group. Most of all there is no you. You cannot exist without the key elements of the rest of the world. This is what you have made of yourself. You are the scrap and the zero of the world. You are nothing.
    “This blank space is your consciousness as it is now. The island that you were on was your consciousness while it was rotting away. The trees were dead, from a consciousness unfertilized by itself. The beach was black and hot with anger at itself without a consciousness of it. That island was the suffering, and this is the death of your mind.
    “You believe that every one has the rights to live excluding yourself. You believe the killer has the right to live, and you love him because he has taken advantage of that right. You believe the killed had the right to live but did not take advantage of it. Now, you are the killed, you have no right to live, and your mind has committed suicide.
    “You will now die in vain. You will die with the fact that you never lived, but let every one else live for you. You will now realize that selfishness was the answer to your life’s misery but you never had the virtue to feel selfish. Always, you have believed that your only purpose was the rest of the world, and you have failed your own false created purpose. Your life had no meaning and you never had a life. You cannot live selflessly with out self destruction. This is what yourself, the thing you never had, is telling you and you will die with it.”
    The voice came to a sudden end. Allen Trump screamed with the greatest fear: The fear of himself. He fell through his conscience into the real world.”

    Allen woke up in his car, with a sight of to bright head lights that he was rushing into. He screamed with fury at himself as the headlights shot into his face. His body crunched against the seat with his head cracked into pieces. He had got what he had always wished for: A body without a mind. So, in nature, that was the death of Allen Trump, the man who had no self; an instance of an end with no beginning.
    In this world Allen Trump lives on in every extrovert ignoramous.

    ..Not very well written, I will revise it later maybe and fix the repetitive concepts.

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